


Eye for an Eye, Soul for a Soul

by jannah (fromjannah)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dissociation, DreamXD as a God, Dubious Soul Trades, Gen, Protective Wilbur Soot, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, not actually RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromjannah/pseuds/jannah
Summary: Tommy encounters the god of the Dream SMP after his death and works out a trade for his brother's life.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 177





	Eye for an Eye, Soul for a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I've still got those Thoughts so I wrote this while I should've been paying attention in class. This is about the characters, not the CCs. DreamXD's characterization is all from my own silly little brain. Have fun.
> 
> Edit: I just watched the stream and I'm about to lose my goddamn mind. Has anything ever aged so poorly in such a little amount of time. I'm actually crying. Shh. Pretend they're all nice. It's canon divergence for a reason.

Tommy is yanked from his well-deserved rest into a black room. A space of some kind? A bit of the void? Who the hell knows? Certainly not him. He had just closed his eyes, last protests on his lips, each one weaker and weaker. The last one -- _stop it, stop it!_ \-- had been plenty loud but said around a mouthful of sticky, syrupy, rusty blood. Everything had hurt, holy _fuck_ it had _hurt_. 

But now nothing hurts. Tommy can't quite feel anything, in fact -- he looks down and sees his bare, pale feet planted firmly on some type of ground and sees clean fingers flex into an instinctual fist, but it's like he's controlling some kind of robot, or just a character in a video game. When he looks forward into the shadowy space, it's through his own eyes, but somehow like he's just watching a video or something like that, too. Catching up on the VODs or some shit. 

_Tommy Innit,_ a voice intones. _It is time to pass your judgement._

Tommy frowns at the voice -- it was as if it had been from everywhere and nowhere, booming and small, deep baritone and fleeting soprano -- and compartmentalizes the fear he really should be past by now. "What the shit -- "

Suddenly, there is a figure in front of him, a mile away and only a breath apart. Tommy stumbles backwards in surprise on legs that feel much too strong -- the ghost of the pain is still there, and he can nearly hear the echo of the nauseating _crack_ of bone. The figure doesn't move. 

_Your spirit has stayed with you_ , they remark. _I find I am not surprised that you stay the same, even in death._

The last word makes a kind of strangled noise escape Tommy's throat. Logistically speaking, he surely cannot have lungs in whatever form he’s in, but he finds himself desperately swallowing air nonetheless. It was said too casually, too easily. Forgive him, but Tommy hasn’t quite processed it yet. 

"Who the fuck are you," Tommy says and it's not a question -- it's a series of cut up words, gunshots of demands that are being made by a dead man. Beggars can't be choosers but of course Tommy will try anyway. 

The figure tilts their head -- at least, Tommy thinks that they do, their form is somehow blurry and all out of focus, 144p that Tommy is bad at sorting out. _Do you not know? I have watched over you for your adolescence, formed your world._

Tommy snorts dismissively, an automatic reaction at the idea of anyone watching over him. But he parses out the statement. _Formed your world._

"You're shitting me," he says on a groan. " _You're_ the fuckin’ god? Dream-ex-dee?"

Tommy thinks that perhaps the deity smiles. Or maybe it's a grimace. _That is a name I have been given, yes._

“Can’t you just speak _normally_ ," mutters Tommy more to himself, petulant to the end and beyond. "What, you’re passing judgement? Let me help you out -- I'm pretty fuckin’ sure I'm not gonna go to heaven." 

_Heaven and hell are not real. At least not for you._

Tommy runs a hand through his hair habitually -- it is dry, now, but it had been soaked through with blood and the memory is nearly palpable, sticking to his fingers. "So? Get on with it, bitch."

 _You're a strange one, boy,_ the god says, and the more prideful part of Tommy thinks that they might be marveling. _Your predecessors were considerably more solemn._

Tommy doesn't respond to this; really, he cannot, so he swallows nothing down to a stomach that isn't there. 

_But I find that you are young. And to be quite frank, I feel as though you and I are both… unsatisfied. It was all so unfitting for…_ A pair of lazy, hazy hands move in the air in front of the deity, weaving something into existence that Tommy's brain cannot quite comprehend; all he sees are threads of light. _What was it the so-called blood god dubbed you? Ah, yes. A hero._

Tommy swears that he can sense a touch of disdain at the mention of Technoblade and some long-gone version of him, juvenile and stupid and idolizing, is well-amused and proud that one of his hero's words have made their way to the mouth of an actual god, seemingly to their dismay. Or maybe Technoblade is simply a very loud heretic. 

_You have used your three lives,_ muses the god aloud, _and your spot in the afterlife has long been ready for your soul. But it is such a young one. I may be just, but I am not cruel._

"What are you going on about," says Tommy again in the flat, choppy, demanding tone. _Hero._ He hates the word with his entire heart. It’s all rounded out, gilded, pretty, filled to the brim with expectations -- crushing, damning expectations, like Atlas’ boulder on Tommy’s hunched shoulders. 

The god doesn't reply. _Justice is a mistress who asks for impossible things._ They pause, looking down at whatever is in front of them -- a messy ball of light, fuzzy like yarn that Phil would knit into Christmas jumpers. _You are a strange one, boy. But you will get a second chance. Or a fourth one, I suppose._

"What?" asks Tommy, so quiet it's more like an exhale. Everyone knew the one, infallible rule of the Dream SMP: three lives can be taken from you, and then you’re done. He repeats, louder: _"What?"_

 _Yes,_ the god continues to pontificate. _It will not be a true life -- fragile, it will be. You will have to watch your step._ Fleetingly, Tommy thinks that might’ve been an attempt at a joke. _But it will be a life nevertheless. You will have another opportunity. You can die like a hero._

There’s that word again. Tommy feels nearly nauseous. He clenches his hands into fists next to him, trying to ground himself -- but what is there to be grounded to? Whatever dimension he’s in, whatever plane he’s transcended (descended?) to, it’s all unfeeling and far away, impossible to grasp -- smoke passing through his fingers. 

But he can process that he’s being given an impossible opportunity, a one in a billion chance. And he thinks to himself, _but do I actually deserve it?_

The god is looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for professions of gratitude. But Tommy has never been a very gracious person.

Instead, he recalls, briefly, Tubbo calling him selfish. 

Naturally, his mouth makes it there before his mind does: “Give the life to someone else.” 

He had been angry. Key word: had. He _is_ still unable to believe that he had gone out in a prison with _fucking Dream_ of all people, the damning hit being with a hand, not even a sword. But now? Tommy is tired. Tommy is so fucking tired. He doesn’t want to fear for his life anymore everywhere he goes, he doesn’t want to always be running from one problem, one _war_ to the next. He wants to rest and really, can he be blamed? 

The god has stopped in their tracks, and Tommy finds that the fact that he has given a _god_ pause is pretty damn hilarious. He briefly imagines asking _Can we get some pogs for shocking literal gods?_ to an audience and then the fact that he is so terribly alone hits. 

Alone. He's signing up for a life of loneliness.

 _This life could not be given to one of your living friends,_ the god says, even-tempered as before, though somewhat stilted. _It is not made for that._

“Give it to a dead one,” Tommy says, burying every last one of his doubts. There cannot be any liquid in his body, but his mouth still feels dry. He thinks back to Fundy, fatherless; he thinks back to Phil, desperate for a reprieve, looking to forbidden books for taboo rituals. He thinks back to a server without a revolutionary leader who will contest with words. “Give it to Wilbur Soot.” 

_You wish to enable a madman?_ the god asks, and Tommy cannot help but be superbly satisfied to find that the shock has creeped to their tone. _He died satisfied, boy._

“Then what about his ghost?” demands Tommy. “He _did_ have some kind of unfinished business.”

The god’s blurred form shifts once, a little to the left, as if they’re uncomfortable. _You believe that the world needs him?_ they respond without answering the question. Tommy chalks it up as a point to him, though he is curious what exactly the ghost is about -- he hadn’t seen him since the final disc confrontation. Christ, the disc confrontation. It’s such a distant memory, now, unbelievable as some film where all the loose ends are wrapped up too quickly, creating an illusion of peace. 

“I do,” Tommy says, steeling himself. “There are people who need him.” 

_And they do not need you?_

Tommy finally stops to consider his words. Are there people who need him? He finds, startlingly quick, that the answer is no. Tubbo had grieved once and nearly moved on; he has Ranboo by his side now, anyway, surely he could go on with it. So many people in the server despise him. Hell, some were probably _celebrating_ his demise. 

Wilbur could be different. He could bring closure, he could guide the people to proper change now that he seemed back to himself, more or less. He had known that he was coming back -- maybe not like this, but surely he was preparing. 

Wilbur could learn from his mistakes. And now, Tommy is trying his best to learn from his own. 

He still cannot quite say ‘no’ to the god, however. “There are people who need him more,” he says instead, as firmly as he can, though there is a slight shake in his voice. “Give it to him. Let me… I dunno, go wherever the fuck I’m supposed to go to.”

 _You will not be able to take this back, boy,_ warns the god, but they do not protest. The ball of light hovers in front of them, as if waiting.

Tommy only nods once, stubborn to the last and beyond. “Give the life to Wilbur Soot,” he repeats, and his voice is now steady.

 _A strange one indeed._ The god lets out a small sigh in resignation. _The judgement of Tommy Innit has been passed. Let him move on to the void. Let him die so another can live._

\---

Wilbur is yanked from his well-deserved rest in the void into a train station. A calming lady’s voice says something that he cannot quite interpret over the intercom. Reddish light streams through windows that offer a glimpse to nowhere. A crumpled paper is in his hands. He hasn't been here since he had died and got judgement passed or whatever the fuck it was Dream-ex-dee had done. It had been a brief visit -- Wilbur had wanted to get to his destination as soon as possible. 

He blinks a few times rapidly, rubbing at his eyes and muttering something profane under his breath. He stretches his long arms, and then looks down at the ticket. All of the words are nonsensical, in a language that he can't understand, save for two. _Destination: Life._

He groans to himself, only half-meaning it. Yes, he hadn’t exactly wanted to come back, but it seemed pretty damn obvious that he would return, whether he liked it or not. It had been taking a bit longer than he had thought, but now was the time, apparently.

The paper crinkles in Wilbur’s hands as he shoves them into the pockets of his coat, a touch of nervousness welling up in him. It had been just a few months since he had died, but it had still felt like a lifetime. He had to face so many people, give so many apologies. Maybe he’d give a few punches, too. A note of grim anticipation joins the apprehension. At least he’s rid of Schlatt. 

He can hear the train coming -- no, two trains, coming in opposite directions, on different lines. He looks up briefly, intending to just check, but instead finds himself staring. There’s someone on the opposite platform -- it seems like it’s an ocean away, Wilbur barely even sees the other person, they’re just a far-off mirage. But his eyes pick out the details hungrily, curiously -- blond hair, poor posture, red and white shirt, khaki trousers. 

_No. Wait._

There is no heart in Wilbur’s chest, but he feels it speed up anyway in horror.

_No, no, no, that’s not right, it’s not his time, no, wait --_

Wilbur yells out his brother’s name but the sound is swallowed up by the two trains coming in -- the one in front of Wilbur coming from the left and going off to the right, the other one from right to left. He stumbles onto the train as if he’s being pushed by something, his legs nearly give out and _please, let him be here, let him just be respawning, let him come with me, the space can’t be filled yet, it wasn’t meant to be like this --_

The train is empty, save for some lurking shadows. A scream rips itself out of Wilbur’s throat, a shout directed at whatever god rules over this world, at fate, at the unloving walls, at _something._ What kind of cruel irony is this? Did he get to rest, only for his punishment to be now?

He scrubs at his face, suddenly slick with tears, despite there being no water in his body. _Tommy, what the hell did you do, you stupid child, why?_

He’s not sure if he wants the train to go backwards or speed up. All he knows is that he needs to get somewhere. Punish someone. 

\---

He awakens in the crater that was once L’manberg. He’s covered with some shining, metallic dust, starkly contrasted ebony and ivory; the afterbirth of the universe that had spit him back up here. But his vision is clear, as his resolve. 

Wilbur Soot had died satisfied, but he returns with unfinished business.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are appreciated.


End file.
